


Freelance Good Guys: Monster by Moonlight

by TheGreys (alienjpeg)



Series: Freelance Good Guys [1]
Category: Freelance Good Guys, Looming Gaia, Original Work
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Animal Transformation, Blood and Gore, Captivity, Disabled Character, Elves, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Gothic, Horror, M/M, Magic, Suicidal Thoughts, Transformation, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 08:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12251013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienjpeg/pseuds/TheGreys
Summary: For a crippled boy in Greenhearst, every day is a battle against his parents, his peers, and his own body. After a series of werewolf attacks on the family farm, the boy wonders…Can he exchange this body for a new one?





	1. CATTLE THIEF

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the first part in a larger series. Please heed the tags for trigger warnings and such. This story contains very dark themes, but I promise the ending won't leave you depressed. Consider this my Halloween contribution this year. ;) Visit this post for concept art, lore, and more stuff about the world of Looming Gaia: http://mythicalshoes.tumblr.com/post/165447246045/looming-gaia-lore-masterpost

## [CHAPTER 1: CATTLE THIEF]

            Evan flinched at his father's footsteps booming down the hall.

 

“What’s this I hear about fighting with the neighbor’s boys?” the man bellowed. Evan jumped with a start and pulled the blanket over his head. His big sister, Abigail, was sitting at his bedside with a cotton ball and a bowl of alcohol to clean his bloodied nose.

 

            Their father barged through the door and pointed an accusing finger at the lump under the blanket. “Every day it’s some kind of trouble with you, Boy! Are you _trying_ to trash this family’s reputation?” he howled. Abigail quickly stood up and maneuvered between the two.

 

            “It was not a fight, Papa!” she argued. “Those Galanis boys jumped him as we were coming home from school. Evan never got a punch in. It was _me_ who blackened their eyes! And they damn well deserved it!” Their father, Foster Atlas, glared down at the children for a long moment. He was a towering, bulky man with a receding hairline and a prickly jaw, a forest of brown fuzz on each forearm.

 

            Abigail stared back up at him and her square jaw was set just as stubbornly as his was. Her auburn hair just passed her chin, a strong-bodied girl of thirteen. The entire Atlas family was built that way—solid and mountainous. That is, except for Evan. He quivered under the blanket as his weak heart thrummed like the wings of a hummingbird, big round glasses all askew on his face.

 

            Finally, Foster broke the staredown and mumbled, “No man wants a woman with sailor’s knuckles.”

Abigail crossed her arms and looked down her freckled nose at him. “Does no man have taste?” she queried. Foster growled and shoved her aside. He tore the blanket away from Evan, revealing two skinny legs bound in braces.

 

            “You’re a blight on the Atlas name,” he said. “Your sister should not have to fight your battles. If you don’t shape up and stop picking fights—”

“Yeah yeah, blah blah, enough!” exclaimed Abigail. She gave her father a shove towards the door. “Stop picking on him, he gets it enough at school! Just get out of here and let me see to his wounds!”

 

            Father and daughter broke out into a shouting match as Evan hunched over and pressed his bony hands over his ears. At just nine years old, already he knew the routine. Foster threatened violence, Abigail called his bluff, then Foster got frustrated and left with a slam of the door, expanding the crack in the wall just a little further.

 

            Though a bully and a questionable father, Foster Atlas would punch a porcupine’s back before he punched a woman. Hitting Evan didn’t exactly reflect well on him either. Evan was so small, crippled, and sickly, he feared the lightest tap would kill the boy. But that never stopped his endless threats and yelling.

 

            “I didn’t do anything, Abby,” Evan whined.

Abigail let out a long sigh and returned to Evan’s bedside. “Don’t listen to him,” she told him, brushing the straw-colored hair from his face. “ _I_ know you didn’t. And I don’t care if I have to bloody my knuckles ‘till they’re old and wrinkled! I’ll always protect my baby brother.”

 

            Evan frowned and grumbled, “I’m not a baby…”

His sister smiled. “Sure whine like one,” she giggled. He was not amused. Abigail pulled him into a hug and added, “I still love you.” Evan glanced down at his shriveled legs, then back up at her.

 

            “What if I get worse?” he asked.

“Don’t say that.”

“What if my whole body breaks and I turn into a monster?”

“Evan,” Abigail sighed, “you are not the burden Papa says. Probably his fault you were born like this anyway, all his drinking and shouting at mom…”

 

            Evan tilted his head down, eyes doleful. Just as soon, Abigail picked his chin back up and told him, “I promise, I’ll love you no matter who or what you are.”

           

*

 

            When the kids weren’t at school, they were working the Atlas farm until sundown. Abigail milked the cows with their mother, Sofia, before hauling the heavy buckets to and fro. She hoisted great sacks of grain on her shoulders, dragged stubborn mules around, and pelted weasels with rocks.

 

            Meanwhile, Evan hobbled about on his crutches and struggled to corral the chickens back into their coop. When one of them attacked, he earned a blood infection that sentenced him to bedrest. While Foster worked the fields and Abigail was at school, Sofia entertained the boy the best she could.

 

            She read him fables from all around Looming Gaia. She taught him about its peoples and creatures, described all the faraway lands that he could never hope to see in person. Not between his ailing lungs, his weak heart, his brittle bones and crooked legs.

 

            This afternoon, she sat by his bedside with a dusty old tome about vampires. Evan listened closely as she read, “…When one is bitten and becomes a vampire, they can no longer eat food. They instead drink the life essence of peoples through their blood. It is how they remain so youthful even after thousands of years…”

 

            “Mama,” Evan broke in, eyes wide, “will vampires come to our house?”

Sofia chuckled, “No, Dear One. They cannot enter a home uninvited. That’s why you musn’t open the door for strangers, for vampires can disguise themselves as the living.”

“But pretend they come in anyway and they turn me. How do I become a person again?”

“Commoners cannot become vampires. Only the magic peoples: the fae and gaians. But let us find out how _they_ are cured…”

 

            Flipping through the yellowed pages, Sofia stopped her calloused finger on a paragraph and read, “…Only the original vampire who turned the victim can turn them back using a spell. Should that vampire be killed, the victim is trapped in their undead form forever…”

 

            Evan shuddered and pulled the blanket up to his nose. Sofia smiled and stroked his forehead. “Surely as soon as a vampire was discovered here in Greenhearst, the people would burn them at the stake. There is nothing to worry about.”

 

            Heavy footfalls were coming down the hall. Then the bedroom door flew open and Foster leaned on the frame. His clothes were grass-stained, boots caked with mud. “Is that boy still lazing around in bed?” he barked. Sofia turned to the man and adjusted her headscarf.

“He is very ill, Foster,” she said flatly. Foster furrowed his brow, unconvinced.

He replied, “After a whole month? He’s just feigning while you coddle him! I have a wife and two children, and what for, when I’m out there working the farm alone?”

 

            Sofia turned back to her son and sighed. She took her time fluffing his pillow and tucking him in before she rose to her feet. “I’ll see to the cattle,” she said, and slid the old tome on the side table before leaving with Foster. Evan stared at the book. As fearful as he was, the curiosity was even stronger.

 

            He pulled the heavy book into his lap and continued reading.

 

*

 

            A year went on and Evan spent most of it confined to his bed, sick with some disease or infection. He spent these long, miserable days travelling Looming Gaia by written word. Every day, Abigail would bring his homework to him from school and tutor him. And every night, Foster would show up drunk to berate him for being so “lazy” and “useless”.

 

            When the weather grew warmer, Evan brought his books to the porch. He looked out at the endless green hills rolling before him, sectioned off by his family’s pastures and wheat fields. Frustrated with the lack of hands, Foster bought the help of two goblin slaves from Kelvingyard, the biggest slaving service in Evangeline Kingdom.

 

            Evan could see their silhouettes in the distance as they corralled the cattle—people who stood just over 5 feet tall with long ears and noses. Their dull green skin was peppered with warts and their eyes were as yellow as corn. Hair never grew upon their heads, always bald and conical in shape.

 

            The goblins bunked in the barn every night, locked in by Foster to prevent any plans of escape. Evan never got a chance to speak with them directly, as they were busy working the property from sunup to sundown. So he learned about their people through a book. He read that goblins were a type of fae—people with magic running through their veins—and so they were allergic to iron.

 

            That was why Foster kept iron shackles on their wrists. It blocked their magical powers and left a burn on their skin, the constant pain reminding them that they were nothing in the eyes of the humans around them. The book also said that using a goblin’s full name would put them in a trance, where they would be compelled to obey no matter what.

 

            One summer day, Evan gathered his crutches and hobbled over to one of the goblins as she was carrying a sack of grain to the barn. He addressed her by her full name, “Rye Lin Del,” and then he ordered, “spin in a circle!”

 

            In instant, Rye dropped the grain and twirled like a ballerina. Her body moved without hesitation, but the look in her eyes was like a caged animal.

 

            “Rye Lin Del, do a somersault!” the boy ordered with a grin. Rye stopped spinning and rolled forward, then quickly got back to her feet. Evan giggled as he made her endure a roulette of acrobatics. The giggling stopped when a backflip went south. Evan clamped a hand over his mouth, staring wide-eyed as Rye writhed on the ground and growled curses at him.

 

            “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—” he began, but the goblin shouted over him,

“You wicked brat! As if I weren’t miserable enough already! You’re a terrible monster just like your father!”

 

            Evan froze as she struggled back to her feet, tears welling in his eyes. Rye stood up with a loud grunt, hunched over like an elderly person though she was still in the summer of her life. “Now I’m lamed and worth nothing to anyone,” she told him. “No one cares for a goblin’s mind or our magic, they only want the strength in our bodies. When that’s gone, they throw us away like rubbish.”

 

            She began hobbling away into the barn. Before she closed the wooden door, she turned back to Evan and added, “You should understand that more than anyone, you crippled fool!”

 

*

 

            It was weeks before Evan’s father allowed him to leave his room again after the incident with Rye. When he finally did, he no longer saw her in the fields or anywhere at all. He couldn’t find the courage to ask what had happened to her. He decided to never speak a word to Kam, the second goblin, for if he truly was a monster then no good could come of it.

 

            Winters came and went, bringing freezing nights and infections for Evan. Each winter, no one expected him to survive. And each spring, he proved them wrong, though his health was steadily getting worse as he grew older. Now he was 16 years old—a grown man in the eyes of Evangeline Kingdom—with hardly anything to show for it except books upon books worth of trivial knowledge.

 

            Evan couldn’t lift a bag of grain, but he could name and pinpoint every territory on the continent of Noalen. He couldn’t make it across the house without stopping for a rest, but he could name every type of nymph on the planet _and_ recite their magical spells.

 

            He knew where to find gnomes, if only he had the stamina. He knew the best way to slay a dragon, if only he had the strength. But here was Evan, wheezing his way through washing a dish in the kitchen basin, and he could only assume he would spend the rest of his days this way.

 

            That summer, Abigail married. She took one of the Galanis boys and Evan watched them ride away on Foster’s best horse to Evangeline Capital. Evan felt betrayed. He grew lonely and angry, refused to write back when she sent letters. Still, she wrote him week after week and told him about her new life in the bustling city. It only made him more bitter.

 

            Then early one autumn morning, a cow was found maimed in the pasture. Giant claw marks were carved into the corpse's flesh and its limbs were contorted horribly. Hoping to catch whatever bear or dragon had done this, Foster camped out on the porch for a month straight. One night, he finally caught a hulking shadow creeping into the pasture.

 

            He brought his scope to his eye and turned the knob until it focused. He saw a muscular wolf-like creature with glowing red eyes and hairless five-fingered hands, each finger tipped with a black claw. Its maw too was hairless and wrinkled, lips pulled back in a snarl to reveal razor-like teeth. It was the size of a grizzly bear, or possibly larger.

 

            The beast crept through the tall grass as it stalked a cow. Then, it vaulted over the fence in a flash and tackled the poor animal to the ground. The other cows bellowed and fled to the other end of the pasture as it tore its equally massive prey limb from limb. Foster dropped the scope and scrambled back into the house, shouting his sleeping wife awake. He began blockading the door and windows with furniture.

 

            “Sofia! Wake up, Woman! Get yourself and the boy into the cellar now!” he bellowed. Sofia stumbled groggily from their bedroom, white gown drifting around her ankles. Her straw-colored hair was wrapped in silk.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked, anxiously fingering the buttons on the neck of her garment.

 

            “There’s a damn _mountain_ of a werewolf in the pasture!” the man replied. He nodded towards the hallway where Evan’s door was left ajar. “They can smell _weakness_. And if it wants in here, these windows won't stop it! So get yourselves into the cellar and we’ll come out at sunrise!”

 

            Sofia did just that, gathering her son’s scrawny 90-pound body in her arms and carrying him down into the root cellar. They rolled out blankets and waited there through the night, jumping at every creak and shift in the house above. Foster cursed and griped about his missing livestock while Sofia regaled Evan with a story.

 

            She was originally from the icy coastal town of Glasstide, an Evangeline settlement as northwest as one could get on the continent of Noalen. She said the town was so isolated, it became a hot spot for people with the lycanthropy disease to settle. “You could hardly tell them from anyone else,” she explained. “Except that they grew strong and hairy, and eventually some of them would go mad.”

 

            Sofia paused. Then she frowned and went on, “I used to clean house for an old woman there when I was a girl. She called herself Miss Agathe and she was pushing a hundred years old, I daresay. She could hardly sit up from her chair and she trembled like a leaf. One day I stuck my nose in a forbidden room, for there was a terrible smell coming from it. And what I found—oh, it was terrible!”

 

            Evan leaned forward and Sofia raised her hands dramatically. “The corpse of a pig! Lying across a table with its middle chewed out, as if a pack of dogs had been at it! I asked Miss Agathe if she had dogs somewhere and she became enraged. She shot up from her chair, raised her cane and started to beat me with all the vigor of a soldier!”

 

            Sofia gestured vaguely at her chest. “She was always wrapped in this big woolen shawl,” she said. “But when she stood up, it slipped away and I saw giant hairy arms, the likes of which I had never seen on a woman—much less a woman so old! She swung that cane like a lumberjack and she even tried to bite me. I fled the house, believing her mind had simply gone soft in her age.”

 

            “Did you ever go back?” asked Evan. Sofia shook her head and replied,

“No. I know not what became of her. But over time, I realized I had encountered a lycanthrope on the evening of the full moon. That is when their bite is contagious, and when the sun goes down, they turn into werewolves.”

 

            “You _sure_ she didn’t bite you?” Foster grumbled, leaning on the ladder to the door. Sofia rolled her eyes.

“You’re one to talk, Husband. Lycanthropes become hairy, smelly, and gluttonous just like yourself.” She turned to Evan. “They also become big and strong, even if they were not before. Some seek to catch the disease on purpose. But I couldn’t imagine being like Miss Agathe, a hulking brute at a century old, attacking children in her madness. What a terrible fate.”

 

*

 

            After that night, Evan began to research lycanthropy. He asked his mother for books on the subject and she delivered, though she was wary about his interest in something so grim. One book spoke of Cerno, the “divine of the hunt”. Cerno was blamed for creating the disease. He tried to forge a creature with the strength of a beast and the intelligence of a man, but the experiment slipped out of his control and became a plague worldwide.

 

            The book said that only commoners—those incapable of magic—were susceptible to lycanthropy. Fae and gaians were naturally immune. Evan picked up another book, this one full of legends from Glasstide. There were a number of stories about werewolves, but the one that piqued his interest the most was _Conway’s Tale_.

 

            It was about a dock worker named Conway who became crippled when a shipping crate fell on his legs. He was not expected to walk again. But after he contracted lycanthropy one night, the townspeople saw him running through the streets and jumping for joy. The disease cured his ailments and made him stronger than ever.

 

            Conway went back to work at the docks, lifting loads twice the size of his coworkers’. As they were trudging home, sore and exhausted, Conway acted as if he hadn’t lifted a finger all day. The tale ended with his marriage to a woman from Wokina, where he sailed off and was never seen again.

 

            Evan set the book aside and looked down at his skinny, useless, legs, all wrapped in metal braces. He wondered…If lycanthropy could help Conway walk again, could it help him too? He didn’t have much to lose from trying. Just his life, and it wasn’t much of one in his opinion.

 

            He wouldn’t be like Miss Agathe, he thought. He was young and sharp, and he wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave a pig carcass lying around his home. He was a man, so who would question his big hairy arms? As of now they were twiggy and nearly bald, just glimmers of a fine blond fuzz in the light.

 

            But all of that was just a passing thought. Something to dream about, never to become a reality, much like travelling the world and making friends, getting married, holding a job.

 

            That is, until the next month.

 

            The werewolf returned and took another cow in the night. Foster was furious, but helpless to do anything about it. The kingdom guard was no help at all, not in the midst of this war with Folkvar Kingdom to the north. They were too busy protecting the borders to concern themselves with a grumpy old farmer’s ramblings.

 

            Evan knew a lot more about werewolves than his father did. After combing all of his books cover to cover, he was certain he could track the beast down and ensnare it, if only his body was strong enough. But it wasn’t, and that’s where their goblin slave Kam came in.

 

            The night before the next full moon, Evan loaded himself into his wheelchair. It was a recent gift from Abigail, which he still hadn’t thanked her for. He rolled his way out to the barn, snagged the key from the drawer in the kitchen and used it to open the big double-doors.

 

            There was Kam, shooting up from her bed of hay on the floor. Her yellow eyes glowed in the darkness. With a lantern hanging off his chair, Evan wheeled himself in the barn and approached her. She was probably just entering the autumn of her life, as the tips of her long ears were starting to droop.

 

            “Kam,” Evan began, “I have a favor to ask.”

The goblin furrowed her hairless brow and snapped, “The first time you ever speak to me in your life, and it’s to ask for something. Typical Atlas boy.”

Evan shook his head. “Listen. I can get those shackles off your wrists. I can even set you free, but you have to do something for me first.”

 

            Intrigued, Kam straightened her posture. “Go on,” she said.

Evan continued, “Tomorrow before nightfall, I need you to set bear traps in the western forest just outside the farm. Papa used to hunt, he has a bunch of them in the shed. I’ll get you some beef from the kitchen to use as bait.”

 

            Kam raised an eyebrow. “What do you need me to do this for?”

“It’s a secret. But if you do, I promise I’ll take off your shackles and you can run away. I’ll tell Papa that bandits broke in and stole you. He won’t bother calling the guard; they never show up anyway.”

 

            The goblin considered it for a long moment, frowning at the dusty old floor. Evan’s voice quivered as he threatened, “If you don’t, I’ll use your name.”

Yellow eyes shot up at him and glared. “Then I don’t have much of a choice, do I? You _killed_ Rye by throwing her name around, you know. Foster sent her back to Kelvingyard, and they don’t waste gruel on defectives like her. Or like _you_.” Kam sneered.

 

            Evan’s chest felt hollow, all the color draining from his face. Kam shrugged and added, “Lucky for you, I value my freedom more than I fear any punishment. I accept.”

 

 

*

 

            The next evening, Kam kept her word. (Not that she wouldn’t, for fae could never tell untruths.) Evan distracted Foster while she made her way out to the forest, where the werewolf was last seen emerging. She laid out bear traps with slabs of raw beef and hurried back just before sundown.

 

            Then Foster locked her in the barn for the night and went to bed, suspecting nothing so far. Evan heard his father’s snores sawing through the house and knew it was time to act. Wheeling his chair down the porch’s ramp as quietly as possible, he made his way outside with two keys: one to open the barn and one to open Kam’s shackles.

 

            The goblin was waiting eagerly on the other side of the door when he opened it. “Thank you for this, Kam,” he said as he twisted the key in her binds. “I’m sorry for everything this family put you through. And,” he paused, swallowing, “I’m sorry about Rye. I’m really, really—”

 

            The last shackle dropped to the floor and suddenly Evan and his chair began to levitate. He clung to the armrests and warbled, “W-wuh-what’s--?”

The goblin stared up at him, yellow eyes glowing like flame. She was holding him seven feet in the air with the power of telekinesis.

 

            Suddenly the chair flipped upside-down. Evan cried out as he was dumped onto the floor. The chair clattered beside him, nearly crushing him had it fallen just an inch to the right.

“Had that killed you, we’d be even,” Kam said, then she stepped over his body and walked out the door. He watched her stop outside the threshold, cautiously looking this way and that before sprinting off.

 

            Kam disappeared over a hill while Evan righted his chair. He clambered up, gnashing his teeth in pain, and started wheeling himself back towards the house before the werewolf showed up.

 

*

 

            Foster was relieved to see all of his cattle still in the pasture. But when he discovered Kam was gone, Evan swore he saw the man spit fire. Foster kicked the barn door so hard that he broke a toe. He was laid up for the rest of the day while Sofia made a trip to the city to order more slaves.

 

            She left by horseback, certain to be gone until late in the afternoon. This worked out ideally for Evan, who was able to sneak out completely unnoticed by them both. He loaded up his crutches and a dagger just in case things got ugly, then he set out for the forest in his wheelchair.

 

            The chair was designed for life on the farm, with burly rubber wheels capable of handling rough terrain. But that also made it heavy, and the trip that should have taken twenty minutes took over an hour. Evan was exhausted by the time he reached the forest, rolling over the narrow trails.

 

            Suddenly he heard yelling somewhere off in the trees. A man’s frantic voice called, “Hello? Someone there? Please help me!”

Evan looked around but he could see nothing. He called back, “Yes? Who are you?”

“Oh, thank the gods! Please! My name is Horace. Some idiot left unmarked hunting traps everywhere and I’ve been ensnared!”

 

            Evan’s eyebrows shot up. Could it really be…? “Keep talking. I’ll find you,” he told the man. Horace began counting and Evan retrieved his crutches, carefully maneuvering over the thick brush of the forest. Horace reached thirty-seven before he was found.

 

            He was sitting upon blood-soaked autumn leaves, his leg indeed caught in one of Foster’s bear traps. The man fit the most stereotypical description of a lycanthrope Evan could ask for: enormously muscled, robust beard and hairy arms, and a head of long, tangled dark hair. His clothes were tattered and stretched out, beard sticky with dry blood.

 

            The slab of raw beef was gone. The trap was fastened to a tree by a chain and a padlock. Evan carried the key in his left pocket, the dagger in his right. Depending on how this went, he would have to use one or the other.

 

            “Oh. You’re just a boy,” Horace grunted, face twisted in pain. “Please, Child, go find your parents and tell them to bring a—a chain-cutter or something!”

“I’m not a boy. I’m sixteen,” Evan told him flatly. “And I can help you myself. But I want to know a few things first.”

Horace cocked his head. “What?”

 

            “Why are you covered in blood?”

There was a pause. Then the man gestured to the bear trap and answered, “This thing’s clamped down to the bone, Boy! I’m still bleeding as we speak, so please, hurry and help me!”

“What were you doing out here?”

 

            Horace hesitated again. “I—I was foraging for blackberries, that’s all. Do you think me a bandit or something?”

“Actually,” replied Evan, “I do. I think you’ve been stealing cattle under the full moon.”

 

            Horace’s eyes rounded, pupils shrinking to pinpoints. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he insisted. He pointed to a thick piece of wood just out of his reach. “Just hand me that stick. I’ll pry this trap open and be on my way.”

Evan reached into his pocket and turned the silver key in the air. He said, “I have something better than a stick. And I’ll give it to you, but only in exchange for something else.”

 

            Horace furrowed his bushy brows. A dark shadow fell over his eyes. “What kind of wicked forest-imp are you?” he growled.

Evan went on, “I’m no imp. I’m just a sickly, crippled young man. Really.” A pained frown crossed his face. “And I don’t want to live this way anymore. This,” he gestured down to his body, “is not a life. At least, not the one for me. So please, if you’re a lycanthrope, I want you to make me one too.”

 

            Horace’s jaw fell, exposing a set of crowded yellow teeth. He cocked his head and replied, “You know not the gravity of what you’re asking of me. Lycanthropy is pain, it is suffering, it is endless loneliness!”

Evan simply shrugged. “Sounds a lot like my life already. Except you can take down a cow, yet one scratch from a chicken lands me in the hospital. You’d be doing me a favor.”

 

            Letting out a ragged sigh, Horace shook his head. He gestured to himself, sitting there covered in blood with his leg in a bear trap and asked, “Look at me. Do you want _this_ to be your future? Does this look fun to you?”

Evan gestured to his crippled legs and barked, “Does _this_?”

 

            “You’re a fool. Just go home and enjoy what you have.”

“No! I don’t want this!” Evan hobbled forward, tears welling in his eyes. “I never asked to be so sick, but I _am_ asking for your help! And if you don’t give it to me, then you’ll just have to sit here and rot in that bear trap until I tell everyone in Greenhearst that you’re a lycanthrope. They’ll burn you alive!”

 

            The two stared eachother down for what felt like an eternity. Wind rustled through the treetops, bringing more orange and yellow leaves to the forest floor. Finally Horace gave in, scrubbing at his face with his equally bloody palm. This much blood loss would have killed anyone else, but Evan read about the hardiness of lycanthropes.

 

            “Alright,” said Horace. “Unlock me. I will show you where I live, and you can come visit me on the next full moon. But if something goes wrong, that’s your problem.” Evan hesitated with the key. Horace noticed and tossed his hand towards his leg. “Come on. What am I going to do? Run?”

 

            A fair point. Evan unlocked the trap and the man’s leg was free, though the metal teeth had punctured all the way to the bone. Horace stood up with a grunt and slowly limped his way down the path, using trees for balance along the way. Evan followed.

 

            Not too far away, they arrived at a clearing. There was a tiny shack here made of logs and debris, a campfire, and a clothesline between two trees. The place looked slapdash, as if cobbled together recently. “How long have you been here?” asked Evan. The shack was closed off by a simple scrap of fabric for a door.

Horace pushed it aside and replied, “Not sure. Five or six months, maybe?”

 

            “Where did you come from?” asked Evan, standing in the threshold. He watched the man dig through a backpack and start dressing the wound on his leg.

“Rockreach,” Horace replied. “Before that, Wintermoore. Before that, Stonehill. Been on the move for about ten years, ever since I got bitten in Glasstide.”

 

            Evan’s eyebrows arched. “My mama's from Glasstide! She said there are lots of lycanthropes there.”

“Hm!” Horace chuckled darkly. “Sure are! Thing is, you don’t know what they are until it’s too late. I didn’t ask for my condition any more than you asked for yours.”

 

            He continued as he wrapped the wound with old fabric, “I hope between now and the next full moon, you’ll gain some sense and reconsider. I try to lock myself up at night, best I can with no one to help me. Sometimes the ropes don’t hold and…Well, livestock goes missing.”

 

            Horace brushed his hair out of his weary eyes. “Get here about an hour before sundown. I’ll be contagious, but not quite beast. It’ll give you some time to escape.” Evan squirmed a little and nodded. Horace held up a finger, tone dropping low and grave as he added, “But know that once you turn, there is no going back. Lycanthropy is for life. Silver will burn you as fire, your stomach cramps with ravenous hunger, your own dog will snarl at you as if you are a stranger!”

 

            The man’s frown deepened. “There are so few who will love you, knowing what you are, and those you once called your ‘friends’ may become your greatest enemies. You will always live in fear, wondering who you can trust. At sunrise you will wake up with blood in your mouth and wonder if it’s animal or man. You will become a monster.”

 

            Evan’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I’m already a monster.”

 

*


	2. MAULED

## [CHAPTER 2: MAULED]

 

            The month passed and the temperature dropped, all the trees left bare. Isanae—or ice nymphs—were beginning to float down from the skies and frolic around the hills. These woman-shaped fae left snow and ice everywhere they stepped. Their skin was stark white and their glistening hair was so fine that it floated around their heads like fog.

 

            Whenever the isanae set foot upon Atlas Farms, Foster was quick to chase them off, cursing and brandishing a torch. But he couldn’t keep them away forever. As the year moved into winter, there would be too many and the Atlas family would be chewing through their preserves until late spring.

 

            The sun was falling and it left the air chilly. Evan bundled up in layers of wool and set out in his wheelchair. When Sofia asked where on Gaia he was going at this hour, he simply replied, “Wherever I want to. I’m grown.” Sofia didn’t like it, not one bit, but he was an adult now and it was not her place to stop him.

 

            All she could do was wrap one more scarf around his neck and plant a kiss on his forehead. Evan took a deep, shuddering breath as he began to wheel himself across the property. He saw the three new goblin slaves hastily pulling up the last crops before it began to snow. They glanced his way, but said nothing.

 

            Doubt and determination were wrestling in the young man’s mind, but his hands kept turning his wheels until he found himself parked at Horace’s shack. The firepit wasn’t burning and it was nearly below freezing, but Evan read that lycanthropes could survive such conditions. He gathered his crutches, took another deep breath, and peeked through the doorway.

 

            Glowing, feral eyes stared back at him in the darkness. There was Horace, sitting against the wall with chain wrapped diagonally over his chest and padlocked. The other end was fastened to a steel bar wedged horizontally between the two boulders his shack was built against. Despite the cold, he wore only a ragged pair of shorts. He was breathing heavily through clenched teeth, froth oozing from his mouth as he glared at Evan.

 

            The young man instinctively stepped back, though he knew he was supposed to be moving closer if this was to be done right. “Horace…?” he queried.

Voice low and gruff, Horace responded, “Hoped I wouldn’t see you again.”

 

            After a long moment of hesitation, Evan willed himself to hobble forward, one crutch in front of the other. "Last warning," Horace snarled up a him, spittle flying forth. “Look at me. You look at the horrid state of me and decide if this is really what you want! There is no going back, Boy!”

 

            Evan’s throat seized up with fear. Sweat beaded his brow in the chilly air. Without a word, he took another step forward and pulled back his sleeve, offering his wrist. Horace gnashed his teeth, eyes wide, hungry, and wild. Then he shut them tight and thumped his head back against the log wall.

 

            “I can’t do this!” he growled.

Evan furrowed his brow and argued, “You agreed, Horace! Please!” He shoved his wrist closer to Horace’s face and the man turned his head away, snarling,

“No, no, no, no! You fool! Idiot! Go home, I won’t!”

 

            His breathing became harsher, mist gusting from his mouth while his chest heaved. He began growling nonsense, a salad of words that didn’t fit together, and he snorted like a beast with each inhalation. Evan watched in horror, stepping back as the man thrashed.

 

            Horace banged his head against the wall, clawed at the ground and his hair and anything he could reach. His body jerked like he was being yanked to and fro by a phantom. Evan was having second thoughts. In fact, his desire to be a lycanthrope had gone completely out the window, and now he was turning to leave, go home, hug his parents and—

 

            Evan made it three feet out of the doorway when he was tackled from behind. Horace jumped on top of him, knocking the air from his lungs and surely cracking a bone or two. White stars danced before the young man’s eyes. Then just as suddenly as the weight hit him, it rolled off of him.

 

            He turned and saw Horace, seemingly battling another side of himself for control. “Run! Run! Run! Run!” he screamed over and over. The word became more garbled and inhuman each time, until his face began to crackle and deform. His mouth elongated into a canine-like maw, thick fur sprouting all over his sweaty skin.

 

            Weak, cold, and injured, Evan struggled back to his feet. He scrambled for his other crutch, too frightened to look back as Horace transformed into a monster behind him. Then a long, mighty howl pierced the air. A chill rattled down Evan’s spine, all the way down to his feet and froze him in place.

 

            Just as he began to turn around, something snagged his leg. The young man yelped as he was pulled. He twisted, fell on his back. He felt his body being shaken back and forth so hard that his glasses flew off his face. Though the blur, he saw his right leg trapped in the massive beast’s maw.

 

            The pain was secondary to shock. Evan barely felt a thing except his hands fumbling for the dagger on his belt. There was a flurry of limbs, a flash of metal, and then a high-pitched yowl. The beast staggered back on two legs, clawing at its face with grotesque clawed hands.

 

            The dagger was lodged deep in its eye socket. Evan seized the moment to drag himself away, leaving his crutches behind. He just had to make it to his wheelchair about ten feet away. He was half-way there before he lost his strength and felt his head sink into the damp leaves.

 

            The monster was slavering and snarling behind him, just out of reach. The chain was holding after all. Evan felt its hot breath on the back of his head, smelled the rancid stench of carrion, and then he sensed nothing at all.

 

*

 

            Voices murmured quietly all around. Green eyes fluttered open and squinted at a world of white. Snow? No. It was soft and warm here, smelled sharp like disinfectant herbs. Evan groaned, turning away from the lantern hanging above. A familiar male voice said, “Easy now. You’re safe, Mr. Atlas. Try to be still, for you’ve suffered a few breaks.”

 

            As his eyes adjusted to the light, Evan blearily examined his surroundings. He was in the Greenhearst Hospital—which was unfortunately quite familiar to him—and Dr. Degaine was standing over him. The doctor adjusted his round glasses and turned to speak to someone out of view.

 

            “Evan is awake if you wish to see him,” he said. Suddenly four more faces were looking down at him: Sofia, Foster, Abigail, and Edmund Galanis—his childhood bully and now husband of Abigail. “Uuuugh. Eddie? What’s _he_ doing here?” Evan groaned, barely coherent through the drugs in his system.

 

            “Nice to see you too,” muttered Edmund.

Abigail leaned forward and placed her hands on Evan’s shoulders. She gave them a gentle squeeze, her voice grave when she said, “Evan, you almost _died_! What were you thinking, going into the forest alone? You are so, _so_ lucky to be alive. Doctor Degaine says it’s nothing short of a miracle.”

 

            “Truly!” added Degaine, glancing at a clipboard. “Even a healthy person shouldn’t have survived that much blood loss, much less…Well… _You_.” He cleared his throat, gesturing to Evan. “You just keep pulling through, Mr. Atlas, time and time again. The gods must really favor you.”

 

            Foster drove his fist into his palm and spat angrily, “So he’s alive! Great! Now let’s head to the jailhouse to visit that cripple-maiming psychopath!”

“Foster, please,” Sofia broke in, placing a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. She looked back at Evan, eyes wet with tears. “I am so sorry this happened to you, Dear One. We called a search last night and one of the neighbors found you in the western forest with—”

 

            She sniffled, shaking her head before continuing, “—Some vagrant, all covered in blood. Evan, were you kidnapped? My darling, please tell me what happened! I should have never let you go out there alone!” Then her voice cracked and Evan watched his mother break down in tears.

 

            All over a poor decision he made. A decision he had an entire month to back out of. A decision he was warned multiple times not to make. The memories were starting to flood back now, vague snippets of the previous night. They made Evan shudder, made the words stick in his throat. His eyes darted about anxiously, looking between all the faces waiting for answers.

 

            “I…” he began with a swallow. The truth clawed at his tongue, refusing to come out as his mother sobbed before him. “I…Y-yes. He kidnapped me,” were the words that came out instead. The lie made him wince. He just woke up and his mind was foggy with drugs, adrenaline, anxiety, and gods knew what else.

 

            “Well, he’ll rot in the gallows, we’ll see to that!” blurted Foster.

Abigail shushed him and told her brother, “Evan. Listen. Maybe you won’t care all that much, since you weren’t using it anyway, but…I want to tell you before you discover it yourself.” She closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Your leg is gone. Whatever happened to it out there, the surgeons could not save it. I’m so sorry.”

 

            Evan blinked. There was a pause as he remembered his leg being ripped apart in the wolfman’s jaw.

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, a little too flippantly. "I'm, uh...I'm alive, aren't I?"

Abigail forced a tiny smile. “You’re tough. You’re going to get through this.”

 

            Evan threw her a distant nod, gazing down at the sheets. The outline of his left leg stared back, the other outline ending just below his knee.

 

            This was a souvenir from his first adventure, he supposed. It would serve as a constant reminder that he was, in fact, bitten.

 

            That he was, in fact, a _lycanthrope_ , and it was too late to go back.

 

*

 

            Evan didn’t want to know what became of Horace after that. But he knew anyway, because Foster attended the public execution and ranted about it for days. The case was handled sloppily by the Greenhearst citizens like most crimes were these days, with the guard spread so thin during the war.

 

            “We dragged that bastard to the middle of the square and lynched him! Took him so long to die, we started throwing stones!” Foster told anyone that would listen. “For what he did to my poor, sickly son, he deserves that fate ten times over!” And Horace, bless him, never said a word. Evan’s secret died with him.

 

            Whenever his father mentioned the execution, Evan would burst into tears or vomit. They assumed it was just from his pain, but truthfully Evan was making a miraculous recovery. In just under a week, his bones were starting to mend and all of his pain was gone. He should have been in agony, yet Evan didn’t remember the last time he felt so good.

 

            No one could know. This recovery wasn’t _human_. Evan had plenty of experience with chronic pain and he could fake it like a master at work in their craft. So he groaned and griped and pretended to struggle along with his estimated recovery.

 

            But now the full moon was approaching. Evan didn’t have to look at the calendar; he could _feel_ the moon’s power creeping up on him like a predator on the horizon. It was a low-level ache in his bones, a sudden hunger pang, a wave of intense anxiety here and there. He had to start planning for the horror show he saw at Horace’s shack.

 

            He was out of the hospital now, resting in his room where his mother doted on him endlessly. That was not unusual for him. But he had to make sure that she nor Foster saw him on the night of the full moon.

 

            So Evan poisoned them.

 

            The concoction was hardly fatal, just a generous dose of his own sleeping medicine mixed into their afternoon drinks. It worked like a charm. They both slugged off to bed, barely making it to the mattress before they were snoring away at 5 o’clock in the evening.

 

            It was the dead of winter and the sun fell early. Evan knew this was going to be rough, but he could have never prepared himself for just _how_ rough. He realized too late that he should have gorged himself beforehand, because now he was locked in the shed with the most crippling hunger pains he’d ever felt in his life.

 

            Sweat poured down his face and his limbs rattled like angry snakes. His fever burned so hot that he felt he could ignite himself to cool down. Evan regretted every miserable second of this as the hour dragged on, and when the last sliver of sun disappeared on the horizon, his mind was too far gone to regret anything anymore.

 

*

 

            What happened during those 12 hours was a mystery to Evan, and hopefully a mystery to everyone else too.

 

            He picked up his crutches and stumbled out of the shed, clothes stretched and torn. Dark bags lined his eyes. He was so unbearably starving, he didn’t think twice when he grabbed a fistful of dirt, chewed and swallowed it, worms and all.

 

            The shed was a disaster. Tools were strewn about, the door full of scratches and holes like someone had attacked it with an axe. The hinges were loose. Evan was very fortunate it held at all, and if he hadn’t left the beast starving, perhaps it wouldn’t have. Now he had to come up with a more secure place to lock down.

 

            He had about a month to figure it out. In the meantime, Foster assumed burglars had broken into his shed again and Evan ended up hiding some tools to boost the illusion. His secret was still safe. For now.

 

            Days turned into weeks and Evan was fully “recovered” in the eyes of Doctor Degaine. Not only that, but he’d put on several pounds and was starting to grow some actual hair on his arms, rather than the peach-fuzz he had previously. He was walking steadier, had ten times the stamina he did before.

 

            On the next full moon, Evan poisoned his parents again and chained himself to a tree in the woods. It was snowing that night and he felt terribly cold, but never did the cold progress to hypothermia. The next 12 hours were another mystery and he thankfully awoke still chained. The Beast was too dumb to put a key in a padlock.

 

            This became the routine for the next three moons. Evan was starting to feel confident in this ruse. He could do this, he thought. This was manageable. And his body just kept getting stronger and stronger, and someday soon he planned to find someone to marry, move to the city and show everyone that he could be successful too.

 

            Isanae were skipping and twirling all over the farm and it was too late in the year to do anything about it. Foster watched them from his rocking chair on the porch as he poured himself a strong drink. He raised the glass to his lips, then hesitated. Sometimes this particular drink made him so groggy that he slept his day away.

 

            He thought better of it and put the bottle down. Evan crept around the corner of the house and peered at his father. He could actually sneak up on people now, without the constant creaking and groaning of his crutches.

 

            Both his crutches and his braces were cast off a couple weeks ago. Evan simply didn’t need them anymore. He was sitting at 140 pounds now—almost all muscle. He kept forgetting to put on his glasses because his vision had improved, and now he didn’t wear them at all.

 

            He gained a whopping 8 inches of height in 3 months. Foster was amazed and delighted by his son’s transformation, as he went from a puny pity-case to the strapping young man he always wished for to carry on his lineage.

 

            Evan scooped up some snow and rolled it into a ball. Foster sputtered as he was struck in the side of the head, snow exploding everywhere. The old man shot to his feet and looked all around, fists clenched at his sides. “Who threw that?” he barked.

 

            Then he spotted a grinning face peeking around the building—less wrinkled, but as square and prickly as his own. “Not me!” said Evan, right before chucking another. Foster narrowly dodged it and broke out into laughter.

“Evan, you devil! Come here!” the man cackled and scrambled down the stairs, swiping a fistful of snow on the way.

 

            Somehow, Evan sensed the snowball rocketing towards the back of his head. He ducked to the side and it sailed away into the sea of white. He threw another and hit Foster directly in the face. The old man just laughed it off, and the two went to war as the isanae giggled at them from the fields.

 

*

 

            Sofia rang the dinner bell to lure her men back into the house. They peeled off their snowy boots, hats, and gloves, leaving them on the porch before they stepped inside. They were still wheezing with laughter. “Nice aim out there, Son,” said Foster. Evan smirked and jested,

“It’s not hard to hit the broad side of a barn!”

 

            “Bwahaha!” Foster gave him a hearty slap on the back. “You’re one to talk, packing on all those pounds lately!” He turned to Sofia with a grin. “What have you been putting in his food, Woman?”

“Nothing unusual, I assure you…” replied Sofia, shooting them an odd look as she set the table. These two hardly smiled in eachother's presence, much less _played_ together.

           

            Before lycanthropy, Evan would pick morsels from his plate and give the rest to his father. His fragile stomach just couldn’t handle it. Now he was shoveling down seconds and thirds while his mother watched, utterly dumbfounded. “Have fairies stolen my son away?” she queried. “Who is this ravenous changeling he’s been replaced with?”

 

            Evan shoved another bite into his mouth and spoke over it. “They’re great potatoes, Mama! The best I’ve ever had!”

The woman blinked, shook her head and returned to her plate. After dinner, Evan offered to wash the dishes and at no point did he run out of breath doing so. Sofia took the opportunity to drag Foster into the hall for a talk.

 

            “I just can’t help but feel something is wrong,” she whispered, wringing her hands at her naval. Foster rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand.

“The boy’s just a late bloomer!”

 

            Evan shouldn’t have been able to hear this conversation, especially over clattering dishes and splashing water. Yet his new senses kicked in, ears twitching at the subtle vibrations. He heard every word clear as a bell as Foster went on, “I knew he would grow out of that sickly phase eventually. I told you time and time again, he was simply feigning for attention. Let him grow up!”

 

            Sofia’s gaze drifted to the side. She let out a sigh and said, “I hope you’re right. I only wonder, with that terrible thing that happened in the woods—”

“Bah! It only toughened him up, I say! With all your coddling, maybe that was the kick in the ass he needed to face life head-on. For the god’s sakes, have a drink and stop worrying for once!”

 

            Sofia’s mouth straightened into a tight line. After a pause, she finally nodded. “I suppose you’re right. He’s just growing up, and it’s hard for a mother to accept. I’ve doted on him so long, what am I to do with myself when he marries some pretty thing and leaves home?”

 

            “I guess you’ll have to dote on _me_ then, won’t you?” Foster smirked. Sofia let out another sigh.

 

*

 

            The next full moon was approaching. Evan felt confident and prepared, having filled his stomach and picked up newer, stronger steel chains from the market. His parents were starting to catch on to the poisoned drinks, so Evan told them he was staying the night at his friend’s house instead.

 

            The lie only worked because he actually _had_ friends these days. He liked to shoot pool at the tavern, play dice in the alley, get into punch-outs and win every time. He managed to put some coins in his pocket that way and bought roses for a handsome young man named Matthias.

 

            But Evan wasn’t really going to see Matthias tonight. Matthias, nor anyone else, knew what he was and he intended to keep it that way. Maybe someday if things worked out between them, Evan could reveal his lycanthropy to Matthias. Then they would move out of the kingdom to marry and Evan could have all the things Horace said he never would—like love, trust, stability, a normal life…

 

            He wasn’t quite there yet. _In time_ , Evan reminded himself as he made his way into the woods. It was barely 7PM and already so dark. Snow crunched under his boot and the giggling of the isanae carried over the wind like haunting chimes. He reached his usual tree, the solid oak with rings carved into the bark, spots where the chains had rubbed so hard that they dug into the wood.

 

            Evan looped the chains diagonally around his bare torso like he’d seen Horace do, around his shoulder on the left and under his armpit on the right. When he quadrupled in size, it would be too tight for the beast to escape. For the next hour, he just had to sit in the snow and wait. He took off his boot and set it neatly aside, removing his peg-leg right after. The Beast was missing its right hind leg just as he was, but his prosthetic didn’t fit the stump.

 

            Back in the house, Foster and Sofia would normally be enjoying their nightly drinks at this hour. But after passing out one too many times, they had been doing so less and less. Evan’s poisonings made them think they might have drinking problems, so instead, Sofia worked on her needlepoint while Foster restlessly paced about.

 

            “If the evening bores you so, why don’t you fix that cabinet in the kitchen?” suggested Sofia. Foster ignored her and slipped on his wool coat by the front door.

“I think I’ll check on the goblins,” he said. “Make sure none of those hobs are planning a mutiny or something…”

 

            The old man stepped outside into the cold. As he made his way towards the barn, he noticed fresh footprints going in the opposite direction. They were far too big to be a goblin’s and isanae left no prints where their delicate feet treaded. Most curiously, the right foot was but a small circle, unmistakably the print of Evan's peg leg. They trailed all the way into the western forest where Foster himself never roamed.

 

            He furrowed his brow and cautiously followed them, grabbing a lantern and pitchfork on his way. The prints were too fresh to be Evan's. He was supposed to be gone until tomorrow. Was he being tricked? More burglars come to steal from him? He trekked across the farm, passed the barren crop fields, the outhouse, the pastures and silos until he reached the edge of the forest.

 

            The trees were bare and dark against the stark white snow. Foster raised the lantern and bold black shadows rotated around the trunks. The big footsteps continued and he followed them deep into the darkness, thinking he would perhaps find the lowlife who hacked his shed apart and stole his tools a few months ago.

 

            Instead, he found his own son. Evan was half-naked in the snow and chained to a tree trunk, body convulsing as his eyes rolled back into his head. Froth bubbled and oozed from his mouth while the most awful, feral growls were erupting from his throat.

 

            Foster tossed the pitchfork aside and rushed to help him. He kneeled in front of Evan and set the lantern beside them. “Evan! Boy, what happened? What are you doing out here?” he asked frantically, trying to untangle the chains. Evan yelled something incoherent as he shoved his father’s hands away.

 

            “Gods, you’ve been possessed!” exclaimed Foster. He reached for the chains again, but just then, Evan began the final stage of his transformation. The old man watched, frozen in horror, as his son turned into a hulking beast. Foster stepped back and slipped in the snow, fell on his backside with a grunt.

 

            “Evan…?” he murmured in utter disbelief. The creature’s red eyes glared back at him as it bared its sharp, glistening teeth. Foster saw a flash of white, and then nothing at all.

 

* 

 

 

            _Dear Abigail,_

_When we were children, you told me you would love me no matter who or what I was. But no one should be expected to love a monster._

_This is the last time you will ever hear from me. I am alive, but I’ve done something heinous, evil, and unforgivable. I’m sure you have heard news about Papa. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything. Please tell Mama I’m sorry too, for I can never face her again. I never intended for any of this to happen. I just wanted to be well, and I thought I could achieve that with lycanthropy. But my poor decisions have poisoned everyone around me._

_By the time you receive this letter, I will be long gone though reluctantly still alive. I realized the least I could do is use this horrid disease—and all the power and strength that comes with it—for a good cause. I can never right my wrongs. All I can do is be better tomorrow._

_I love you, Abby. Goodbye._

_\--Evan_

 

*


	3. MOONLIGHT AT DUSK MANOR

## [CHAPTER 3: MOONLIGHT AT DUSK MANOR]

 

            The tavern was bustling with drunk patrons, air choked with tobacco smoke and loud chatter. Under the dim lighting, Evan was seated at an isolated table with a half-empty stein. He was clad in rough leather armor of poor quality, with pieces of scrap steel for pauldrons and rusty machete at his hip.

 

            There was plenty of treacherous work here in Taybiya, as long as one was brave or foolish enough. The settlement was in Southriver Wood, just south of the Bluerock River which separated Noalen from the Noso Peninsula. Crossing the peninsula would take Evan into the continent of Serkel, but only in midsummer when the peninsula wasn’t covered by the sea.

 

            It was still spring, just a few months after he fled Greenhearst. In that time, he took mercenary work wherever he could get it. But he only accepted jobs for causes he deemed righteous, and that is why he was sitting in this filthy bar with a watered-down drink and gear that was downright embarrassing.

 

            His strength and senses made up for the rough armor, at least for now when the jobs were still simple. So far he had rescued a dog from a well, freed some slaves, helped a woman escape her violent husband, returned a baby which had been kidnapped by faerys, and retrieved stolen jewelry from bandits.

 

            Evan felt it wasn’t enough. He could do bigger and better things, if only he had the gold. So easily could he shake down anyone in his bar for their wallets and fatten his pockets with crime, but he was done with hurting innocents. He was already responsible for 3 deaths in his young life.

 

            The first was an accident, the second was indirect, and the third was blatant murder. When he woke up at sunrise with his dead father’s blood in his mouth, Evan vowed he would “harm no innocents”, “help those in need”, and “kill only in necessity”.

 

            That was his code as a mercenary. Technically such a code would make him a “hero”, but Evan couldn’t use the word sincerely. Not with so much blood in his past and guilt on his back. He preferred the term "Freelance Good Guy".

 

            So far he’d been shutting himself away in inn rooms during the full moon. Hanging a simple “do not disturb” sign on the doorknob kept innkeepers away when they heard crashing, scratching, and howling inside. They just assumed he was having a rough night with one of the wenches and left him to it, as long as he checked out on time the next day.

 

            Evan just finished a small job getting a stolen purse back from a thief. It never even got bloody; he just lifted the fidgety man by the neck of his shirt and told him to drop it. The thief wasn’t willing to get roughed up by someone twice his size, so he obeyed and took off sprinting.

 

            There was no jail or official police force in Taybiya. That’s what made mercenary work so lucrative here. Criminals just kept coming back for more rounds, only to get caught and released again and again. Sometimes they were released with missing fingers or entire arms to teach them a lesson, but Evan tried to avoid such brutality. Even people with good intentions made mistakes. Everyone fell on hard times at some point.

 

            Light flooded the dank tavern when the old wooden door creaked open. A tall elven woman stepped inside, looking out of place with her fine beaded dress in a sea of slobby drunks. She reminded Evan of summertime, with her bronze skin and long copper hair.

 

            A dozen haggard faces looked her way, began to whoop and whistle. She rushed in with tears in her eyes and cried, “Shut up, you swines! Where is my son? Where is my dear Zeffer?” The catcalling died to confused murmurs. The elfenne stormed through the bar, shoving wobbling men out of her way and searching behind furniture.

 

            “Haven’t seen Zef in a couple days, Miss Vengelor,” said the barkeep. Miss Vengelor’s head whipped towards him, slanted eyes rounding.

“That’s when he went missing, two days ago! I thought he was on another one of his drinking binges!” she wailed. “But if he’s not here, then where could he be? W-why would he just leave like this?”

 

            She broke down into sobs in the middle of the tavern. Various men crowded around, offering comforting words and drinks. Evan stood up and pushed passed them. He told her, “Miss, will you allow me to help you? I’m a highly skilled tracker. I’m sure I can find your son.”

 

            Swiping the tears from her angular cheeks, Miss Vengelor replied bitterly, “Oh? And what limb shall you charge me for your service, Mercenary?”

“Whatever you’re willing to pay, if anything. Please, I just want to help.” Evan’s brows sagged, a weight sinking down in his chest. For a very brief moment, he saw Sofia crying before him.

 

            The elfenne sniffled. After a pause, she nodded. “Very well. Come with me, and I will show you where I saw him last,” she said, and Evan followed her out of the building. As they moved down the forested trail, she explained, “Zeffer’s always been a bit of a troubled boy, but I never expected him to _run away_!”

 

            “He never met his father,” she continued, voice quaking with grief. “Perhaps he was angry at me for raising him alone. I did my best, Mercenary, I did! But I—”

“It’s alright. You needn’t justify yourself to me,” Evan said calmly, raising a gloved hand. “Just give me a description. Age, height, color?”

 

            “He just turned nineteen,” Miss Vengelor sniffled. “Of course that means little with us elves. He and I look the same age. We’re about the same height as well. Our skin is the same color, but he has his father’s beautiful white hair.” She touched her shoulders with her fingertips. “It’s about this long, straight like mine.”

 

            Evan nodded. She continued, “His boss tells me he hasn’t been showing up at the tannery. I figured he’d fallen into his drinking habits again, but I checked every inn and tavern in town and he’s nowhere!” They approached a quaint little house with a rounded thatched roof and walls of mud bricks, fortified by logs. It was surrounded by similar houses and bordered with a lush colorful garden.

 

            “Last time I saw him, he was tending to the flowers here,” she said, pointing to a flowerbed of pink roses.

Evan scratched at the stubble on his chin and asked, “Do you have anything with his scent on it? You know, uh, for my bloodhounds.”

“Yes, let me get his cloak!” Miss Vengelor quickly disappeared into the house. When she returned, she was holding a red hooded cloak adorned with beads.

 

            Evan folded it into a square and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll return this as soon as I can,” he told her. “The search begins tonight and it will end only when the trail goes cold. I’ll be in touch with you, Miss Vengelor,” he said.

She tipped her head in gratitude and replied, “Thank you so much, Sir. Please,” she swallowed back her tears, “whatever you find, no matter how grim, I want to know. I will not sleep at night either way.”

 

            Evan nodded. “Of course.”

 

*

 

            There were no bloodhounds. Dogs became agitated around Evan, barking and whimpering whenever he was near. Owning one would be a nightmare, but it wasn’t necessary anyway. His nose was nearly as sensitive since contracting lycanthropy, for better or worse.

 

            Sure, he could smell the outhouse a mile down the road. But he could also smell Zeffer’s scent still lingering in the air from days ago. After burying his face in the cloak, he could pick out that smell from a thousand others wafting through the air; from decaying leaves, to rising bread from the bakery, to the unique scents of a thousand other people.

 

            A lycanthrope’s nose was a powerful gift. It lead Evan passed the town border and into the wilderness, down increasingly vague trails until he was tromping through the thicket. He cut bushes and vines away with each swipe of his machete. The scent was getting stronger as he went.

 

            Eventually he came to a stony mountain covered in overgrowth. Zeffer’s scent was pouring out from a dark cave. It was like a bittersweet mix of sour booze and fresh roses. Evan cautiously approached the cave, machete in a white-knuckled grip. He didn’t smell anything rotting, so Zeffer was likely alive and he couldn’t say how this stranger might react to him.

 

            Crouching before the entrance, Evan cleared his throat and called, “Zeffer Vengelor? Are you there?” There was no answer, but Evan’s keen ears picked up a rustle from deep inside. He continued, “Fear not. I’m a friend. My name is Evan and I’ve been sent to find you. Your mother is worried sick about you, Zeffer. Why don’t you come home?”

 

            There was a long silence between them. Finally, a voice echoed back, “I cannot return. Please tell her I’ve died. It’s better that way.”

Evan cocked an eyebrow. “Why is that?” he asked.

“It’s really none of your business, _Evan_. Just leave.”

“I will not. Not while your mother cries in your absence,” Evan told him sternly. “I am not here to pass judgment or punish anyone. Whatever your reasons, you can tell me.”

 

            “Mother can’t know!” Zeffer’s voice cracked. “It would break her heart, knowing what I’ve become! Tell her I’m dead and leave it at that. It’s not even a lie, so you won’t have to feel bad!” Evan furrowed his brow in confusion. He pulled a match from the pouch on his belt and struck it against the rough stony wall.

 

            “I’m coming in,” he said. “I promise I won’t force you to do anything. I just want to talk to you for a moment.” He made his way through the black cave. There were no protests from Zeffer. Then suddenly, a fluttering mass flew by and knocked Evan on his backside.

 

            The match went out and the young man threw his arms over his head, ducking away from the flurry until it subsided. He looked through the entrance and saw a flock of bats flying away into the forest. Then, a small blue light illuminated the cave behind him.

 

            There an elf stood, slim and angular, almost exactly matching Miss Vengelor’s description. Though the skin that should have been bronze was instead dull and mottled like that of a corpse, irises glowing red like cinders in the darkness. A tiny marble of magical light was hovering in his palm.

 

            Evan grunted as he sat up, brushing his mop of hair from his eyes. “Zeffer,” he began, “you don’t have to leave with me, but please tell me what’s going on. You don’t look well.”

 

            Zeffer’s eyes rolled back and he let out a deep, heavy sigh. He flicked the ball of light with his thumb and it flew up into the air, where it hovered in place. Then the elf sat down across from Evan and explained, “Fine. A few days back, I went to the tavern after work for a few drinks. Nothing unusual. But there was this beautiful elfenne there, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen! She sits down next to me and just starts talking, says her name is Lilian.”

 

            He shook his head and sighed again. “I was an idiot. I knew it was too good to be true, but I was thinking with the wrong head when she invited me back to her house. She took me to this big castle out in the woods,” he gestured vaguely outside the cave, “introduces me to this massive family of hers…”

 

            Evan drew his knees to his chest, resting his arms across them as Zeffer continued, “So we go to her room and we start…Well, anyway, before I know it she has her teeth in my neck and I passed out right there.” The elf wearily scrubbed at his face.

 

            “Vampires. The whole family—vampires! And when I come to, it’s a day later and Lilian’s going on about being part of the family this, marriage that. Pure insanity! I didn’t agree to any of that! Her father said the villagers would burn me alive if they knew what I was now, and he’s right. It was either join the Dusk clan or be alone forever.”

 

            Zeffer shrugged. “So here I am. Just me and my vampirism, and I can’t even get the hang of that cloaking spell they use! Lilian looked like an elf when I met her, but the next day she was a walking corpse! Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

 

            “Worst of all, I’m starting to get hungry. But no matter what I eat, it just comes back up. I need _blood_ , Evan. And I feel if I don’t get it soon, I might do something drastic. Something foolish and violent.”

Evan furrowed his brow in thought. After a moment, he replied, “It sounds like we need to march into to that castle and ask for a cure.”

 

            Zeffer let out a dark chuckle. “She wouldn’t cure me. I know too much. Why would she do that—so I could safely waltz back into town and expose the vampires living in the woods? Not a chance.”

“Then we won’t ask. We will _demand_ ,” Evan told him.

 

*

 

            The Dusk Manor was an ancient compact castle, built mostly of cobblestone and wood. Some sections were obviously newer than others, an amalgamation of different materials at different stages of decay. It was square in shape with tall spires at its edges and a courtyard in the center.

 

            Evan and Zeffer stepped through the main wall into the courtyard. They felt scrutinized as if surrounded by predators, though they could see no one. The windows were barred with copper, all glass tinted a dark amber color. A field of graves and dead flowers lined the courtyard. There wasn't a living plant in sight.

 

            A dry fountain stood in the center, worn and in disrepair. Evan and Zeffer stepped around it and approached the big wooden double-doors, reinforced by more copper. Evan reached up and used the lion’s head-shaped knocker. After a moment, one of the doors slowly creaked open.

 

            A sharp, sunken face peered at them from inside. He was an elf with tan skin and rich brown eyes, a head of black hair spilling down his shoulders. He was well-dressed in a black and gold suit, shoes gleaming as if recently polished. His eyes flicked over to Zeffer and he grinned, baring straight white teeth.

 

            “We knew you’d come crawling back,” he said. “They always do.”

Zeffer swallowed the anxiety in his throat and replied, “Let me speak with your daughter. Please.”

The suited elf’s face twisted into a scowl. He nodded towards Evan and asked, “Who is this brute with the machete?”

 

            Evan spoke for himself, “I’m just here in case things get ugly. Looks like we have a problem here, and I believe we can resolve it peacefully. What do you say?” He held out a gloved hand for a shake. Lilian’s father stared down at him, then sneered and opened the door further.

 

            “The name's Dario. Just come in,” he said, sweeping his arm towards the long hallway. The floors were made of old, worn tile with ornate designs. Golden sconces lined the walls, holding dripping candles. The two followed Dario into the main room. It was spacious and tall with a variety of centuries-old furniture from different eras. The corners were thick with cobwebs.

 

            There were already people here, over a dozen of them. All appeared to be adult elves infected with vampirism, their skin dull and mottled like Zeffer’s. All of their eyes were red and gleaming in the dim candlelight, staring daggers at their visitors. They had been chatting and drinking some kind of tea, but now they had all fallen silent.

 

            One of them stood up, a vampiric elfenne with her jet-black hair worn in two conical buns like the ears of a cat. “Zeffy, you’re back!” she exclaimed with a wide grin, baring her fangs. She stepped forward with her thin arms outstretched and Zeffer moved back, inching his way behind Evan.

 

            “Stay away!” Zeffer barked. “You ruined my life, Lilian! You need to fix this right now!” Lilian stopped in her tracks. Her thin brows sagged, looking hurt and confused.

“Ruined your life?” she queried. “No, not at all! I made it _better_ , Zeffy. I made you immortal so that we could be together forever.”

 

            Zeffer growled, “You’re crazy! I don’t want to marry you. I hardly even _know_ you!” A low murmur rose from the other vampires. They seemed increasingly offended by the moment. Evan looked back at Lilian’s father and jumped with a start, as he’d dropped his magical guise and now looked just as hideous and undead as the others.

 

            Covering her pale lips with her hands, tears welled in Lilian’s eyes as she whined, “Then why did you come back with me if you don’t like me?”

“I didn’t know you were a _vampire_!”

“Well, I never said I wasn’t!”

“You were disguised as an elf! What else was I supposed to assume?”

 

            Their voices were escalating, so Dario stepped between them and glared at Zeffer. “Enough,” he rumbled. “You disrespect our clan traditions. This is how we have grown as a family for thousands of years. Now fall in line, fledgling, and take my daughter’s hand in marriage. Like it or not, you are one of us now.”

 

            “No!” shouted Zeffer. His voice echoed off the stony walls. “Your traditions are slimy and _evil_! You can’t just hold peoples’ humanity hostage. Now either cure me or kill me—your choice!” The other vampires sat up and began to hiss and mutter. Evan heard more hissing from above and looked up. At least a dozen more sets of red eyes looked down at them from the balcony.

 

            Evan slowly pulled his machete from its scabbard. He rraised his hand in one more last-ditch effort to diffuse the situation. “Easy now, people. Surely we can reach some kind of compromise?”

A female vampire with waist-length blonde hair snarled at Zeffer, “There is nothing to compromise! You’ve made my daughter weep twice now, you cretin!” She turned to Lilian’s father. “Dario, do not kill them. I want them both thrown in the cattle pen!”

 

            “As you wish, my dear Ivy,” replied Dario. Then in a flash, he disappeared in a puff of black smoke. The other vampires stalked around Evan and Zeffer in a hissing circle, blocking their escape. Evan hadn’t expected this many opponents, but this was just the kind of challenge he’d been craving.

 

            A puff of smoke exploded behind him and suddenly Dario materialized from behind. He grabbed Evan’s head and yanked it back, sinking his fangs into his neck. The other vampires erupted in cheers, cut short when Evan whirled around and sent the vampire flying across the room.

 

            Dario sailed into a centuries-old chair and broke it to pieces. He was back up in a flash, briefly levitating before shooting back towards Evan. Zeffer tackled him mid-flight and brought him to the ground. Evan staggered back and swiped at his neck, looking at the streak of blood left on his glove.

 

            Commoners were immune to vampirism. Dario must be trying to bleed him out so he lost consciousness, Evan figured, but his lycanthropy was already clotting the wound.

 

            Zeffer cried out when Dario threw him aside with deceptive strength. The circle of vampires were closing in with clawing hands and bared teeth. Evan swung his machete to keep them at bay. Two vampires jumped on him and sank their teeth in his neck and forearm.

 

            Evan had no choice but to slice them, and when he did, the others exploded into violence. Angry undead were jumping down from the balcony and suddenly he was swamped. They began to strip off his armor and bite him everywhere they could as he cut them down.

 

            They latched on to his body like relentless leeches. Evan shook some of them away and one slammed into the coffee table, knocking over the teapot. Blood leaked from its spout and stained the old rug.

 

            Lilian was somewhere in the fray. Evan nearly brought the machete down on her skull, then reeled back and fell on his hip. Once he was on the ground, the battle was over. The vampires crowded in and wrestled the machete away, binding his hands behind his back.

 

            Once back on his feet, he could truly see the carnage around him. Five vampires lie dead, at least five more injured. Lilian’s silk dress was splattered with black vampire blood, but none of it appeared to be hers. Across the room, Zeffer was also unscathed and being tied up.

 

            Evan sighed with relief. As long as those two were alive, he hadn’t failed his mission yet.

 

*

 

            Evan and Zeffer were dragged to the basement, into a dungeon the vampires called the “cattle pen”. They were locked away in small cells adjacent to eachother, only one victim to each. There was nothing to these cells except a bucket for waste. All vampires were fae, and all fae were allergic to iron, so the bars were made from copper instead.

 

            Evan was shoved to the stone floor, door shut and locked by Dario. The vampire said, “For every pint of our blood you’ve spilled today, we shall drink a thousand from you. Eat up, Meat.” With that, he snagged an orange from a nearby bowl and tossed it between the bars. It hit the wall and rolled beside Evan’s foot.

 

            He watched the vampires leave, rickety wooden door slamming at the top of the stairs. Looking around, he could see some of the other prisoners in their cells. All human and elven except for Zeffer, some young and some old, all overweight to varying degrees. They were dressed down to the bare minimum with sloppy, short-cropped haircuts. Their wrists and necks were marred with angry red scars.

 

            “Excuse me, Sir?” Evan called to the old man beside him. His beard was patchy as if shaven by hasty hands. The old man quickly turned away and began mumbling nonsense at the wall. Evan called to the woman across from him, “Miss? May I ask you something?” and she simply screamed at the top of her lungs as she cowered.

 

            “H-how could they do this?” Zeffer stammered, frantically gesturing through the bars. “How do the Dusks live with themselves? Do they have no guilt? No shame at all?”

Copper was not the strongest material. These bars still couldn’t be manipulated by a normal man, but Evan was far from normal. He grasped one of the bars, gnashing his teeth as he pulled.

 

            There was a creaking sound as it began to bend. Zeffer’s eyes rounded while he watched. Evan stopped, then thought better of it and pushed the bar straight again. “What are you doing?” snapped Zeffer.

Evan whispered back, “Breaking out now won’t lead to your cure. We have to play this smarter than that.”

“You’re still trying to cure me? Forget it! At this point I just want to die or _escape_!”

 

            Taking a long moment to think, Evan looked around for scrutiny before he continued, “There is something you should know about me, Zeffer. I, uh…” He cleared his throat and mumbled, “I’m a lycanthrope.”

Zeffer’s white brows furrowed. He tilted his head and replied, “Lycanthrope? You mean you turn into a…a Werewolf?”

 

            “Yes, under the full moon. And the next is coming in just six days,” Evan explained. “This dungeon will _not_ hold the beast. You need to get yourself and Lilian somewhere safe until sunrise.”

Zeffer shook his head, looking bewildered. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

 

            Evan paused, then answered with a shrug, “Marry her. Play their game. Just make sure you and Lilian are secured by sundown. We’ll capture Lilian, threaten a cure out of her after the rest of the Dusk clan is taken care of. The Beast will likely pick the whole castle clean.” A deep frown creased his mouth, eyes drifting down at the grimy floor.

 

            Zeffer swallowed his anxiety. Silence passed. Finally he nodded and agreed, “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

 

*

 

            Life in the cattle pen could hardly be called “life”.

 

            Zeffer managed to get out the very same night he was put in. All he had to do was blubber to an attendant, tell her that he changed his mind and he’ll do whatever they say. Evan watched him leave, and he was thankful he got out early because this truly was a ghoulish, ghastly place to be.

 

            Once in a while, attendants would show up to feed their “cattle” rice, stale bread, and gruel. When they were lucky, they got fruit or a slab of rat meat. Evan watched as the old man beside him was deemed too unhealthy for harvest, taken out of his cell and presumably killed.

 

            He watched as victims’ cells and bodies were scrubbed down before they were fed upon, because apparently even creatures of the night practiced food safety during their heinous crimes. They did not bite these victims, as that may infect them with vampirism and vampiric blood did not nourish them.

 

            Instead, they made incisions at their wrists and necks with blades, collected what they could in pails. The blood was bottled and labeled, victims stitched up. They were left to rest for two days before they were fed upon again.

 

            Except for Evan, who the vampires quickly discovered was an endless buffet. Lycanthropy boosted his healing factor to such a point that they were harvesting from him twice per day. They didn’t seem to suspect his disease yet, just assumed he was a very big, healthy individual. They stripped him down to cotton shorts, at least letting him keep his peg-leg.

 

            It was nightmarish, but Evan held on and toughed it out, for he knew this would not last forever. Just five more days.

 

            The constant screaming of the other prisoners was getting to him.

 

            Four more days.

 

            The attendants were looking sluggish. Evan’s keen ears overheard two of them complain about stomach cramps, headaches, malaise and the like. They chalked it up to a flu spreading around the manor.

 

            Three more days.

 

            The attendants were gossiping about Zeffer and Lilian. Evan listened closely as they scrubbed out a cell nearby. They spoke about a wedding on the night of the full moon, as was their tradition.

 

            Two more days.

 

            The flu had apparently hit everyone in the castle except Zeffer, according to the attendants. Evan listened to their jabbering as they drained his blood for the second time today.

 

            One more day.

 

            The attendants were concerned that Lilian wouldn’t get over her illness in time for the wedding. They thought she was foolish for agreeing to go through with it anyway. She was utterly infatuated with Zeffer, they said, though he still didn’t seem so crazy about her.

 

            Today, the full moon was rising.

 

*

 

            The cattle pen was deep underground where no sunlight could penetrate. There were no clocks or calendars anywhere. Evan didn’t need them anyway. He knew the moon’s power was consuming him when the hunger set in, when his head felt hot and dizzy, when the tremors rattled his body. The other prisoners watched him, confused and fearful as he began to transform.

 

            After that, the night was a blackout.

 

            No thoughts, no dreams, no feelings at all until sunrise. Then he felt aching bruises and stinging cuts all over. Pain stiffened his joints, as if he’d been throwing heavy freight all night long. Evan’s blond eyelashes fluttered. He let out a rasping groan as he struggled to sit up. The ground below was cool and soft.

 

            He’d never been so grateful to see the sky. Above, the sun’s warm glow beamed through the treetops. Otherwise the morning air was chilly and damp. Blinking the blur from his vision, Evan examined his surroundings. He was sitting in the courtyard, which was littered with overturned tables and chairs, scattered flowers, a broken wedding arch, and stiff vampire corpses.

 

            Looking down at himself, he saw his bare skin smeared with blood, both black and red. It extended all the way up to his lips and the taste in his mouth was absolutely horrid. He spit into the grass and wobbled as he tried to stand, but his peg-leg was gone. All he had were the shorts the attendants provided him. They were a little stretched, but in-tact.

 

            Evan grabbed a nearby chair and pulled himself up. He used it as a crutch to move himself through the courtyard, looking at all the maimed bodies. They were spread everywhere as if they were caught in a tornado. It must have been a hell of a fight. Evan was thankful he remembered none of it.

 

            Dario, Lilian, and Zeffer were nowhere to be found. A few other vampires were missing too, but as Evan counted the fallen, he realized The Beast nearly slaughtered the whole clan—enough that the stragglers wouldn’t be much of a threat even in his human form. One of the front doors was crooked on its old copper hinges, forced open by something massive and angry.

 

            Evan passed through it and moved down the hall, stepping over a couple more bodies. The interior was deathly quiet. The big living room was empty and some of the furniture was overturned, upholstery ripped by big claw marks and stained with black blood.

 

            Suddenly a door creaked open and Evan jumped. He whirled around to see Zeffer coming out of the floor. Or rather, a trap door in the corner of the room. “Evan?” the vampiric elf queried in a small, cautious voice. Evan’s shoulders fell with relief and he leaned on the back of the chair.

 

            “Yes. It’s me,” he said. Zeffer clambered out of the bunker and kicked the door shut. Evan raised an eyebrow, half-expecting his “wife” to follow.

“Where’s Lilian? And the rest?” he asked. With a weary sigh, Zeffer combed his white hair back with his fingers and smeared black blood through it. Whether it was his or not was uncertain. His fine suit was filthy with the stuff.

 

            “Not sure, unfortunately,” he grumbled. “We were at the altar when you showed up. I saw the sun going down but I couldn’t get out of it. I just figured I’d grab her and run to the cellar when the time came.” He threw up his hands and tilted his head up at the ceiling. “Then her father snatches her away from me during the carnage, they both poof into bats and fly off!”

 

            “I didn’t see where they went, but I’m sure they’re long gone. I just hurried to the cellar and locked it,” Zeffer continued, leaning his back against the wall. “Heard others banging on the door, but didn’t dare let them in. They deserved everything they got out there, those monsters.” He tilted his head towards the hall.

 

            Evan tipped his head down, frowning at the floor. So after all that, the mission was a failure. He failed both Zeffer _and_ his poor mother. His chest felt hollow, knee weak, so he turned his chair around and sat upon it, burying his face in his hands. Zeffer stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

            “If it makes you feel any better, I never drank your blood,” mentioned Zeffer. Evan lifted his head and shot him a questioning look. The vampire went on with a disgusted look on his face, “Yeah, they _label_ the stuff. With your _names_. Liked to talk about their favorite _flavors_ and…Ugh. Nevermind. It was sickening.”

 

            Quirking an eyebrow at the floor, Evan pieced it together in his head. So that explained the “flu”. Diseased lycanthrope blood couldn’t have been good for them. “Anyway,” Zeffer sighed, “I don’t want you to feel bad about anything that happened here. Even if I didn’t get cured, this horrible vampire clan was basically wiped out. That alone makes me feel pretty damn good, knowing what they were doing to the community for all these years.”

 

            Evan slowly nodded, mouth pressed into a grim line. Zeffer slid down the wall, rested his chin on his fist and continued, “Still, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m one of those horrible creatures now. I still can’t go home. I can’t face my own mother as a blood-sucking ghoul! I can’t watch my friends turn to enemies, Evan, I can’t!”

 

            Drawing his knees to his chest, Zeffer buried his head between his legs. “So I’m alone. Completely and utterly on my own, for the rest of my immortal life. I may as well drive a stake through my black heart! Who would ever accept a creature like me? A simple hunger pang drives me into a violent frenzy! I’m too dangerous to be around anyone!”

 

            “Zef,” Evan began. He slid off the chair and sat before him, speaking gravely. “I just turned into a beast and slaughtered a whole family. Everything you’re saying, I could say the same.”

“At least you _look_ like a person,” Zeffer spat. “Lilian was teaching me that guise spell, but I can hardly keep it up for an hour before arcane fatigue claims me. I look like I should be six feet under. Anyone who sees me will know just what I am.”

 

            Evan scratched at his chin in thought. Then his brows arched and he said, “Fortunately, I’ve got a cloak for you.”

 

*

 

            When Evan retuned to the cattle pen, he had a feeling it would be a nightmare. But all the preparation in the world didn’t stop him from heaving his guts out when he saw the violence The Beast had committed down here. The “cattle” were his first victims, it seemed; the bars to every cell twisted and warped like paperclips.

 

            “Probably just as well,” Zeffer assured him. “I couldn’t imagine returning normal life after so many years of… _This_. Could you?” Evan didn’t know how to answer that, so he said nothing. He just gathered his peg-leg and found his armor in a wooden chest by the door, which was also broken off its flimsy copper hinges.

 

            And just like that, the two walked away from the nightmare that was Dusk Manor. Rather, they gimped away, as both of them could probably use some medical attention. Zeffer complained about the sunlight the entire way, the way it made him nauseous and blinding headache itsent ripping through his skull.

 

            They returned to the mossy cave where Evan left the cloak. He picked it up and draped it over Zeffer, grinning as he pulled the hood over his head. It hung over his red eyes, and if he kept his head down, passersby would be none the wiser.

 

            “Works like a charm,” Evan told him. The vampire folded his arms and frowned.

“I guess. At least until I get this guise thing down. I was a terrible student, only ever cared about botanical magics.” He snorted. “Never thought I’d be using illusions to hide my grotesque ugliness. Pathetic, right?”

 

            “Don't flog yourself, Zef,” Evan told him. “You made a mistake. You never asked for this. You’re making the best of it and that is all you can do.”

Zeffer’s shoulders sank beneath his cloak. “I suppose,” he murmured. Then his eyes flashed back up at Evan. “So, what are you planning to tell my mother?”

 

            The question caught Evan off-guard. He floundered a bit before he decided, “Well, uh, what would you _prefer_ I told her?”

With a weary frown, Zeffer shrugged. “I was dead when you found me. I’m fae, I can’t say it if it’s not true.”

 

*

 

            Telling Miss Vengelor about her son was the most painful conversation of Evan’s life. “I draped the cloak over his body, for it belonged to him life, and so it should follow him in death,” he told her. It wasn’t a lie. None of it was technically a lie. Miss Vengelor fell to her knees and sobbed. She couldn’t thank him for delivering such tragic news, but did throw a fistful of gold coins at his feet before storming into her house.

 

            Evan couldn’t keep them in good conscience. He put the coins in her mailbox and returned to the cave where Zeffer was waiting, still wrapped in his cloak. “It’s done,” Evan told him. Exhaustion weighed down his voice.

Zeffer nodded, said, “I know that must have been horrible. Thank you, Evan.”

 

            “Nothing compared to what you’re going through right now, I’m certain.” The lycanthrope frowned and sat down beside him. “What’s your next move, Zeffer? Surely this damp cave is not your new home…”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” The vampire suddenly snapped, throwing a hand towards the bright exit. “I deserve no better. And besides, it’s nice and dark, keeps that damn sunlight off me.”

 

            “I just want to make sure you have a plan. You know, just…Because.” Evan trailed off, feeling more foolish by the second. He thunked his head back against the wall, looking up at the dark abyss above. He spent his whole childhood sick in bed, now barely seventeen with a painful case of emotional constipation.

           

 

            “You’re worried I’m going to kill myself, aren’t you?” queried Zeffer. Evan glanced over at him, didn’t expect to see a sly little grin. Zeffer went on, “Well, I was considering it. But then I realized I’m already dead, so what’s the point? Besides, that’s when I thought I’d be alone forever.”

 

            Raising his hand, he clamped it down on top of Evan’s. “But now I know I have a friend. I think he’s slightly out of his mind, but…” Zeffer smiled and tipped his head to the side. “I must be too, because I’m sitting in a cramped little cave next to a werewolf.”

A tiny laugh gusted through Evan’s nose. “ _Lycanthrope_ ,” he corrected.

 

            “Whatever you are, I still like you,” the vampire told him, giving his gloved hand a squeeze.

 

            Evan’s face flushed red as he squeezed back.

 

*

 

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you noticed errors or have any criticisms, I would love to hear it. I'm an amateur writer but I'm trying to improve, so any feedback is very valuable to me.


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